


Accreditation

by Snownut



Category: House M.D.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:27:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snownut/pseuds/Snownut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An endocrinologist by trade, she was adrift in a sea of infectious disease experts. Some of the world’s top specialists were on hand just to see House. Set before the third season episode 'Airborne'. House and Cuddy attend the WHO accreditation conference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Cuddy had to remind herself sometimes that House wasn't just a legend at Princeton-Plainsborough. His over -the-top methods and talent for solving the most difficult cases made him larger than life to many in the medical community. In the wake of his infarction, many had been under the impression that she had given him the diagnostics department as an alternative to his suing the hospital out of existence. In truth, House had never had any intention of suing. His life had been destroyed; no amount of money would grant him his mobility or restore what had been taken from him. Stacy had tried to push him into it; citing over and over the incompetence and the utterly disrespectful way he had been treated by his colleagues. Broken, desolate, House had refused to consider a lawsuit. But he did consider Cuddy's offer to establish a new department. He knew as well as she did that she was offering him an apology in her own way. She couldn't undo what had been done to him. But she could offer him a way to help others avoid the incompetence he had experienced.

Of course, he was still a bastard. He always believed he was right, always pursued the answer at all costs. He was, she mused dryly, a highly trained bloodhound. He was perfectly passive until he caught the scent of a case and was off at full speed. He wouldn't stop until he'd solved the case; heedless of his own wellbeing or whatever mayhem he caused. His reputation had, for better or worse, come to be entwined with her own. They were always eager to meet her, to talk about House and his methods. It was disconcerting, she decided, to receive attention from her colleagues on House's behalf. He did everything in his power to avoid receiving it; she supposed the attention had to go somewhere. She'd roped him into attending the WHO conference on the premise that she owned his ass for the Tritter incident. To be fair, he'd submitted easily enough that she suspected he hadn't objected to attending, but felt he had to put up a token protest. He'd been almost docile on the flight over, sleeping most of the way with his leg stretched out in front of him. Cuddy had shaken him awake after they'd landed, and he'd limped heavily over to the waiting wheelchair wordlessly, blinking at the bright light streaming through the ramp's plexiglass windows. He'd been silent on the way to the hotel, and had left her standing in the middle of their joined suite as he'd slid into his bedroom and closed the door behind him. He'd still been sleeping when she'd checked on him before heading down for breakfast the following morning. It was just as well, she supposed. Easier to mingle and enjoy herself without having to keep an eye on House. She'd selected a table near the windows, and sat, sipping a cup of coffee one of the wait staff had brought for her. She'd been amused to hear House's name brought up several times in conversation, almost always spoken in reverential awe.

"Good morning,. Dr Cuddy, I presume?" she turned to find a gentlemanly older man standing just behind her, his hand lingering on the back of the upholstered chair. He had a lovely accent, but she couldn't place it.

"Good morning. Yes, I am."

"I'm Richard Scott."

"Please, call me Lisa." She held out a hand, and he surprised her by kissing it instead of shaking it. "Care to join me?" she asked. He sat down, smiling. A waiter approached, and quickly brought him a cup of coffee at his request. Taking Cuddy's breakfast order, he left them to sit in comfortable silence.

"I'm one of the conference organizers." He said after a moment. "We're very excited that you were able to attend our conference."

"I'm flattered." Cuddy said dryly. Scott's eyes twinkled in amusement. "But we both know one more administrator attending a conference isn't worth mentioning."

"Very well." He conceded. "We're grateful you could attend the conference, and bring Dr House with you. If I recall, he's not a morning person."

Cuddy gave an unladylike snort. "He's definitely not a morning person. He's not much better in the afternoons or evenings. But traveling is usually difficult for him, and I assume he was still sleeping this morning when I left." She said carefully.

"We are all grateful that he would make the effort. It's been too long since he spoke publicly." Scott said, smiling as he got to his feet. "I hope you will convey our gratitude and well-wishes when you see him."

"I will." Cuddy promised, meeting his gaze evenly. "I'm certain he'll be down sometime this morning." She smiled congenially. He would be down:she'd drag him down by noon. She so owned his ass. "I know he was looking forward to hearing Walters and Mathis." Cuddy lied smoothly. House had ranted about most of the other speakers as idiots, but he'd had nothing derisive to say about those two in particular, which meant he found their work intriguing and worth hearing about.

"Wonderful." Scott shook her hand this time, and left her to eat breakfast alone. She watched with interest as more attendees arrived for breakfast. Their voices filled the room with a low hum, and more than once she heard House's name come up as people consulted their programs and planned their day. She finished her breakfast and slid away from the table. She was invisible as she moved through the dining room. An endocrinologist by trade, she was adrift in a sea of infectious disease experts. Some of the world's top specialists were on hand just to see House. Her mind spun for a moment; sheltered at home in the hospital which was a universe unto itself, House was an eccentricity. Most of the hospital's employees had learned how to stay out of House's way. They'd come to accept his erratic behavior, knew the warning signs and did everything they could to avoid him when he was on a case. It was a given that he would eventually take on the hard cases and come up with the correct diagnosis. But out here, House's personal eccentricities were not what these specialists focused on. They didn't know that he broke into patients homes, browbeat the lab techs, exploited patients and stayed up for two, three, four days at a time until he pulled a rabbit out of his hat. All they saw were the results, the unsolvable cases, the lives saved that would have otherwise been lost. Making her way back upstairs, she inserted the keycard and slid into their suite. The TV was still off, House's door was still closed. She sighed, and found scarcely an hour had passed. She itched to barge into House's room, drag him out of bed and down to the lobby where she could show him off. Having House on staff was at best, a nightmare. He routinely bucked her authority, challenged, blackmailed and belittled his colleagues and abused his staff and hospital equipment. His reputation, as she'd told him once, was the only reason she kept him on. It was how she justified the fight against Vogler and Tritter and his colleagues to keep him upstairs in his office. If she couldn't show him off once in a while; the remaining donors would have washed their hands of Princeton-Plainsborough long ago. Still, he'd looked exhausted when he'd gone to bed the night before. His gait had been worse than normal. Giving him a little while longer probably couldn't hurt.


	2. Chapter 2

She'd settled down with the book she'd brought for the flight, and had just made it through the first chapter when House opened his door and stumbled out into the suite's joined space. He looked rumpled and tired as he padded over to join her on the couch.

"Good morning." She greeted cheerfully.

He sank gingerly down onto the couch. He looked like he was moving a little better than he had the night before. He rubbed his eyes, and squinted at her in the glow of the lamp she'd turned on. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten. You sleep okay?"

"Yeah, thanks." He leaned back against the couch and lifted his leg up onto the coffee table.

"Kadian help?" she asked lightly as she set her bookmark in the book and lay it down on the table.

"Yeah." He met her eyes steadily, and Cuddy knew that was as much gratitude she would get from House. Knowing as well as he did that the stress of traveling, and the very nature of chronic pain meant he'd be utterly wiped out by the long flight, she'd given him a one-time prescription for time release Kadian. He hadn't said anything, but she swore she'd seen gratitude in his eyes when she'd given it to him.

"So what are we doing today, boss?" he asked glibly, and she smiled to herself.

"We," she emphasized, " have one conference to attend this morning at eleven, and another this evening before dinner."

"This the royal 'we'?" he asked, eyebrows waggling.

"This is you and I attending conferences together. I own your ass. And now, I'm going to show it off." She said smugly.

"I always knew you had a thing for my ass." He lowered his leg and got to his feet slowly. When he moved away though, she noted he was a lot steadier.

"I think you mean that you have a thing for my ass." Cuddy shifted on the couch and tucked a foot beneath herself. "Get dressed. We might make brunch before the first presentation. By the way, do you know a Richard Scott?"

"Sir Richard Scott?" House paused by the door to his room, leaning on his cane. "He's the head of Infectious Disease at the University of Johannesburg."

"He was asking about you. Said to tell you they're grateful you came to the conference. A lot of people are here to see you." Cuddy bit the inside of her lip as House hung his head for a moment before resuming his trek to the bathroom. For all his bravado, House was extremely uncomfortable with adulation. He neither sought it nor required it. Rising to her feet, she tucked her book back in her bag and was on her laptop when House emerged again. He'd made an effort to dress himself up a little in his freshly pressed suit and jacket, even if his shirt was untucked, and his Nikes clashed with the overall look. Cuddy eyed him playfully, pleased to see that he'd even tamed his nascent beard back to its' usual five o'clock shadow. He took out his vicodin and shook two into his hand before dropping the bottle back in his pocket. Cuddy powered down her laptop, slid it back into the carrier and looked at him expectantly.

"Ready?" she asked. House nodded as he threw back the pills and swallowed. She slid her feet into her shoes and clipped on her laminated name badge while House did the same. He picked up the strap of his own laptop case and slung it over his shoulder, adjusting it so it hung over the small of his back and minimized the swinging motion against his body. He led the way out into the hall, and Cuddy trailed behind him as she made sure the door was locked before joining him. They walked in silence to the elevator, slipping inside wordlessly for the ride down to the lobby. House leaned heavily against his cane, lost in thought as two more conference attendees joined them without so much as looking in House's direction. Cuddy was amused on his behalf; they were discussing his upcoming lecture on Keratoderma Blennorrhagica. She snuck a glance at him and smiled sadly. He had reason to avoid dealing with his patients and colleagues. She'd always believed he was hiding behind his disability, but began to consider that for the first time he had a point. A physician with House's reputation shouldn't be crippled. He should be whole, untarnished. Above infirmity. Instead, with his cane and his limp, he was almost invisible. Unrecognizable.

When the doors opened and they stepped out into the lobby, Cuddy again resumed her position at House's left shoulder as they moved into the dining room. House paused to survey the scene, and moved to a table near the rear of the room. He dropped gracelessly into one of the upholstered chairs and Cuddy sank down across from him.

"Greg!"

Cuddy startled, unaccustomed to hearing House called by his given name. She turned as he did to see Scott striding toward them, looking delighted. He held out a hand out, which House surprised Cuddy by taking. Scott shook his hand happily, and patted him on the back. "It's wonderful to see you looking so well. How long has it been?"

"Ten, fifteen years?" House hazarded a guess as Scott dragged a chair over to sit beside him. Several people in the room had heard Scott call out to him, and were craning their necks to see who he was talking to. House sighed heavily as one of the wait staff approached their table. He put in his request for coffee and toast, and steadfastly avoided meeting Cuddy's eye as she tried to ascertain if his lack of appetite was due to his nervousness or the Kadian he'd taken the night before.

"Far too long, my friend." His expression changed, and House winced. "I heard about the infarction. I'm terribly sorry."

Cuddy winced as well, knowing House hated to discuss his disability with anyone. "It was a long time ago." was all he said, and gratefully took a sip of his coffee as the waiter handed it to him. Scott seemed to accept the fact that House didn't want to discuss the infarction and changed the subject.

"I understand you're interested in sitting in on Walters and Mathis' presentations."

"Are those today?" House asked casually, but his eyes were twinkling in amusement.

"Walters speaks at eleven; Mathis doesn't speak until tomorrow afternoon. And all anyone can talk about is your presentation on Friday." Scott rested his weight on his elbows, leaning forward conspiratorially. House rolled his eyes. "Anything you can tell an old friend about? Something to give the organizers?"

"I'm here." House said flatly. "Don't push me, Dick."

Scott nodded gracefully, and got to his feet. "I'll perhaps see you in Walters' lecture?"

"What time is it?" House asked, as the waiter returned with his toast. "Now, I mean?"

"Just past ten thirty."

House nodded in agreement, and Scott clapped him on the back. "Wonderful!" he crowed. He patted House on the back again warmly before walking toward the conference room; his phone pressed urgently to his ear. Cuddy was amused by House's restraint; he looked as though he had several things he wanted to say, but voiced none of them. Several attendees were watching, and Cuddy noticed that they had finally discerned House's identity. They were whispering to one another, and openly staring at him. House looked both saddened and irritated as he slowly broke off pieces of his toast and swallowed them whole. He looked as though he wanted nothing more than to escape back into his hotel room. Cuddy waited with him silently until he struggled to his feet once more. He limped steadily down the hall, ignoring the stares of his colleagues. Cuddy met their eyes steadily; she'd resumed her place at House's shoulder and acted as a kind of buffer for him. Staring at them, she pushed them away with the weight of her gaze. House would not appreciate—nor tolerate—being stopped for anything, including hero worship. If House was aware of her assistance, he gave no sign as they stepped into the conference room. House took a seat near the back of the room, and Cuddy left him to situate himself while she retrieved presentation information and signed them in. By the time she'd rejoined him, the rest of the table had slowly begun to fill in; no one appeared to recognize House, though. He slid his glasses on as she handed him the syllabus, perused the sheet while Cuddy settled herself in beside a blond woman who gave her a once-over. She smiled, warmly, and smirked internally at the dirty look she received in return.

"I'm Lisa Cuddy." She whispered, and the woman glared at her. "And you are?" she prompted.

"Elsa Grauman." She said in a heavy German accent. She turned away from Cuddy as the house lights were dimmed, and Sir Richard Scott stepped up onto the stage and took the podium.

"Good morning, everyone. I wanted to take a moment to thank you for coming to this year's WHO conference. I'm pleased to announce that my good friend,Gregory House, was able to make this year's conference for the first time in a long time. We're all very happy to see you, my friend. We're grateful you could come and share your knowledge with us once more." He directed his comments to the back of the room, and House looked like a deer in the headlights when the entire room turned to look at him and began to applaud. He sat up somewhat stiffly, nodding deferentially. Cuddy felt oddly proud of him; House had an incredible gift, and it wasn't often that he receieved the praise that was his due. She smirked again when the group at their table began whispering quietly to one another. The cold, sour expression on Elsa's face had vanished. Now she looked…happy. Almost. She smiled too-brightly at him. House, on the other hand, looked a little bit flustered. She met his eyes steadily, and smiled when he relaxed perceptibly. She reached for her syllabus and let her hand brush against his in wordless support. He didn't acknowledge the gesture, but he didn't pull his hand away either.


	3. Chapter 3

Infectious disease had never been her thing. Beyond the one required semester in med school that had centered exclusively around the topic, she had never in her life devoted any time to the subject. It was distressing to see images of patients ravaged by Ebola. Or any number of the other infectious diseases that lurked out there. She'd always felt more at ease with endocrine disorders. They were neat. Safe. Not even remotely dangerous to the person studying them. You couldn't catch diabetes from the person sitting next to you, she'd always told herself. Biting her lip as she shifted restlessly, she ruefully admitted to herself that she wasn't missing anything by limiting her knowledge of ID. Anything that she wanted to know, in any case. House had been strangely silent the entire time. Sitting with her chair turned to face the front of the room, she realized that she wasn't quite able to see him in her periphery. He could be sleeping, for all she knew. Shifting again in her seat, she turned her head to the left exaggeratedly and threw a look over her shoulder at House; expecting to find him sleeping, or fidgeting with his phone. She felt her jaw reflexively drop when she realized that he was listening—listening—intently to everything being said. He hadn't broken out his gameboy or any other electronic device. He'd studied the syllabus—more than once from what she could see; he'd jotted down a few notes on occasion and a handful of journal numbers with article references. He hadn't interrupted; unlike with Weber's lecture. Smiling to herself; Cuddy all but squealed inside with joy as she turned back to the front of the room. House was—could be—professional. It was like waking up to find the Earth had a second moon. Now all she had to do was figure out how to garner the same response at home.

The trouble at home was that House felt there was nothing worth listening to. House was an infectious disease specialist; board certified from Johns Hopkins. He had practiced in the field for a long time before Cuddy had ever picked him up for Diagnostics; he'd been renowned for his acumen and understanding of infectious disease agents both in the pathology of the disease and with an instinctual feel for the myriad presentations in patients. A great deal of his reputation had come from the authoring of a textbook, completed just days before the infarction. He had achieved world acclaim within his field years earlier, and had even been granted a fellowship position with the WHO shortly after Cuddy herself had completed her residency. In recent years, since House had resumed his practice—albeit on a limited scale—he had been offered and had rejected the WHO's offer of Resident Representative. It had been an incredible honor and a boon for House's career, even after he'd declined it.

It was the only organization House had ever truly invested himself in; he'd remained an active part of the WHO even in the aftermath of the infarction and a valuable resource to other ID specialists worldwide. Cuddy smiled then, wistfully; remembering the way House had always referred to himself as the go-to guy. Before the infarction, he'd gotten himself hired on at Princeton-Plainsborough and had been on the fast track to tenure and the ID department headship when she had joined the staff. And when the infarction had taken him down, all of her ambitious dreams had gone with him. Had House been named the new head of Infectious Disease; her new administrative career would have rocketed off to a great start. Donors would have been lined up at the door. Instead, her new position as dean of medicine dawned with House's second arrival in the ER. She hadn't wanted his case; she'd nearly refused it until she realized that some short-sighted overworked attending had dismissed his concerns and sent him home with a bottle of T3 to let his leg die. Because of his ignorance—her hospital had found itself in a very actionable position. It was House, himself, who had been right in the end; he'd diagnosed himself even as his leg had died and nearly taken him with it. He'd spent a month in the hospital while they sorted out his electrolytes and got him on his feet. He'd limped out of the hospital on crutches and refused to set foot in it again for three long years.

She'd spent twenty minutes firing the arrogant young attending after a thorough ass-chewing—and the intervening three years ramming a proposal to create the Diagnostics department through subcommittee after subcommittee until it reached the board, where it narrowly passed. In the end, she admitted to herself, she wasn't certain whether it had been harder to convince the board to create the department—or talk House into accepting the position. He hadn't recovered well, even after three years his skin was still sallow and he was still underweight; at best, his gait was ponderous and slow. According to Wilson, his disposition hadn't improved either, and if he'd been irascible and temperamental before; he was positively morose in the aftermath of his disability. In the end, though, he'd taken her up on her offer; and the Diagnostics department was born.

Absorbed in her thoughts, she didn't notice that Walters had ceased speaking up front; but she did jump when a smattering of applause went up from the crowd. Beside her, House was smiling a crooked little smile. She eyed him then, feeling uncertain under the weight of his blue-eyed stare.

"What?" she demanded irritably.

"You were fidgeting." He said calmly, mouth quirking.

"I was not." She protested quietly, feeling the heat of a blush rise to her cheeks.

"Yes, you were. What happened to; 'fidgeting is childish?'" he asked in delight.

"I never said that." Cuddy rose to her feet expectantly, and tucked her chair in as House planted his cane and pushed himself to his feet stiffly.

"Yes, you did." He grinned then, his eyes dancing in the dim light of the conference room. "Last department head meeting."

"You weren't fidgeting; you were shooting spitballs at the ceiling." She said flatly. "I didn't say fidgeting was childish, I said you were."

"You gonna spank me, Mommy?" he asked lasciviously. Cuddy rolled her eyes and walked away; ignoring the cool shimmer of disapproval from Elsa Graumann. There was no losing House though; he picked up stride beside her smoothly and did his best to swing the conversation by making several lewd suggestions on how she could "discipline" him as they made their way back down into the dining room.

"You wish." She muttered. House looked delighted that she was going to play. The dining room was filled with people when they emerged; and more than a few of them turned to whisper excitedly to one another. House's impish expression slowly melted away and Cuddy spoke then, anxious to keep House's playful side from disappearing again. "Have you been to Singapore before?"

"Once. We stopped through on our way back from Japan."

"Want to go sightseeing with me?" she asked quietly. House looked pained, and thumped his cane absently on the floor once.

"Not big into walking a lot." He mumbled after a moment.

"I'll pay for the cab." She promised, surprised at her own offer even as she spoke. She'd intended to sightsee while she was in Singapore, but she hadn't planned to invite House along. She'd figured House would ditch her to do his own version of sightseeing, or whatever he liked to do while on vacation. Whatever he hadn't done on the trip she'd given him to Vancouver. She bit her lip to keep her ire from showing; House had opted to tear her ticket in half and sit at home for a week in his apartment instead of taking her gift at face value. Still, he looked like he needed something more to eat—and he probably wasn't going to eat much if she left him alone with a dining room full of groupies.

"Just for lunch." He said quietly, and Cuddy smiled. "You're buying." He added, unnecessarily.

She grinned. She hadn't expected anything else.


	4. Chapter 4

House had refused to let her drag him into any Americanized food chain. By the time their cab had arrived, he'd categorically denied every single suggestion she'd made and Cuddy had thrown herself into the cab; irritated by his smug refusals.

"Where are we going then?" she'd demanded as House had sunk into the seat beside her and closed the door. He tapped his cane on the floor twice before leaning forward and asking the driver a question in a low voice. The old man turned, one eyebrow raised in surprise at his passenger's knowledge of his native Malay. He answered slowly, and at House's answering nod, started the meter. House leaned back, smiling wickedly. Cuddy felt her blood pressure slowly begin to rise. Again. The arrogant ass.  
"Where are we going?" she asked again, feeling her teeth grind in annoyance.

"The Desa Kartika." He intoned solemnly.

"Where's that?" she asked coldly. House shrugged.

"Hell if I know. But he says they make pretty good Satay have good tuak and brem bali and take American credit cards."

Cuddy rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Your concern for my credit cards is overwhelming." She said dryly.

"What can I say? I'm all heart. And I didn't want to hear you complain because you weren't smart enough to get some of the local currency. That's no excuse to eat in some chain place."

"So you've said." Was all she could think to say in response.

The restaurant was a twenty minute cab ride from their hotel; taking them away from the main thoroughfare and into the old part of the city. Away from the bustling tourist areas small buildings prevailed; tiny hawker stands lined the streets and nearly all of the traffic was on foot. House had been silent for the most part; though Cuddy had caught him massaging his leg when he thought she wasn't looking. When their driver finally stopped before a small stand, House leaned forward and paid their fare in wrinkled, well worn bills before climbing out stiffly. She smiled to herself. She might not have been smart enough to pick up some of the local currency; but House was well traveled enough for the both of them.

"When did you get that?" she asked as she slid out behind him.

"When we landed at the airport." He said cryptically. Glancing around for a moment, he leaned heavily on the cane and limped slowly toward a little restaurant with low tables and chairs featured beneath cheerful awnings.

"Were you planning on going out?" Cuddy asked, joining him smoothly.

"Thought it might come in handy if I decided to."

"Is that a yes?"

"I suppose so." House paused to read the name above the doorway before pushing it open. The bell overhead tinkled merrily, and Cuddy shook her head in disbelief.

"You read…whatever that is too?"

"It's Malaysian. And not really. I only know a few letters." House ignored her reaction for the most part, focusing his attention on the young man behind the counter. Luckily, he greeted them in heavily accented English.

"How can I help you today?"

"We'd like a table for two." House said calmly.

The waiter led them out onto the patio, and after sparing a glance at House's cane settled them at a small raised table with extra tall stools. House had situated himself on the stool while the waiter set out their water glasses and silverware, and Cuddy found herself digging out her cell to check for messages.

"Anything good?" he asked quietly.

"Your team admitted one of Wilson's patients."

"One of his cue balls have something else wrong?"

Cuddy fought the urge to smile; his description of Wilson's patients was incredibly disrespectful. It was, however, still funny. "I think it's a clinic patient." She admitted. She scrolled through the rest of her messages to find no other urgent notifications.

"Have you checked in with them?" she asked absently.

"No. If they need me they'll text me."

Cuddy looked up in surprise. "Somehow I thought you'd be more obsessive than that."

House gave her a small smile. "Not my patient."

Cuddy stared at him for a long moment before slowly turning her attention to the menu. Luckily, it was written in English, so she had more than just the pictures to go on. She selected Putu Mayam from the menu, liking the sound of rice noodles with coconut and jaggery. House, she noticed, didn't go with his satay, but instead opted to try Kiam Chye Ark Th'ng—and even managed the pronunciation if the waiter's expression could be judged—whatever it was contained duck and preserved mustard leaf and cabbage flavoured with nutmeg seed, Chinese mushrooms, tomatoes and peppercorns. He did, however, order a tuak, which turned out to be a sort of palm wine. Cuddy didn't bother to check, but she had no doubt that it was expensive.

Lunch was a silent affair. Both dishes had come quickly, and they had tucked into them without further conversation. The restaurant was peaceful; despite the language barrier she could tell that the city's residents were going about their daily tasks without the urgency she was so accustomed to seeing in Princeton.

"It's so peaceful here." She said without thinking, and she smiled to see House's eyebrow creep up slowly.

"That's because they have no concept of instant. They don't need anything done right away." House wiped away the last traces of his soup and leaned back on the stool with a sigh. His right hand crept down to cradle his leg defensively; fingers tightening to a white knuckled grip before releasing when he saw she was looking. His gaze shifted out to the street beyond, and Cuddy was struck by the weariness she saw in his face before he smoothed it away. She too, leaned back onto the stool and felt the weight of the meal steal over her. The cumulative effects of the flight, the time change and the relaxing environment all conspired to rob her of her remaining energy. With a determined sigh, she forced herself to sit up and touch his sleeve cautiously.

"Do you mind if we take a raincheck on the sightseeing? All I really want right now is a nap. We could try again tonight, if you want."

House glanced back at her, his expression unreadable. After a long moment, he nodded, and waited until she gained her feet before lifting his leg off the footrest and easing it to the ground. Cuddy gathered her purse—and her credit card—before heading back inside. True to her word, she paid the bill and rejoined House outside, where he was patiently waiting beside a cab. Like the gentleman he sometimes was, he waited for her to settle herself inside before joining her. They rode back to the hotel in silence, Cuddy feeling the warmth of her exhaustion more and more with each passing mile. At some point, she realized she must have drifted off because she woke to House's hand on her shoulder. Half asleep, she slid awkwardly out of the cab and stood, squinting into the sunlight while House paid for the cab again. He guided her into the lobby with a hand against the small of her back, and waited with her for the elevator. She looked up to find he seemed just as tired, his blue eyes dull and his gait heavy and ponderous.

"You didn't want to go to any afternoon meetings, did you?" she asked quietly. House shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips before disappearing once again.

"Nope."

"God, I feel like I could sleep for a year."

"Jet lag is always worse the day after." He told her gently. When the elevator deposited them on their floor, Cuddy led the way down the hall with the key card already in her hand. House followed as quickly as he could, and once he was through the door she hurried to her room without any further distraction. As she kicked her shoes off and settled onto the bed, she could hear the TV turn on. Listening to the scrabbling voices in the room beyond, she rolled onto her back; struggling to rationalize why House would rather watch TV than sleep when he seemed as tired as she. She considered getting up, to see if he was all right—but even as the thought crossed her mind she felt sleep steal over her, and she surrendered happily.


	5. Chapter 5

The light was flickering. Awakening slowly, she found the only light in the room came from the TV in the living area. The glare from the screen was barely enough to give the occasional burst of light as she sat up and fumbled for the lamp on the bedside table. It was completely dark outside, and no wonder. It was well past eight p.m., local time. Thinking back, she remembered it had been past three when they'd arrived in the lobby. So she'd been asleep just over four hours. Rising to her feet, she straightened her jacket distastefully and crossed into the shared room of their suite. Half-sitting, half-lying, House was resting against the back of the couch with a cushion under his right knee and his foot stretched out on the coffee table. His head lolled in her direction, and Cuddy sighed at the glazed look in his eyes.

"You're up." He murmured faintly, and his eyes widened slightly. To her surprise, Cuddy found the glaze vanished of its' own accord. So he hadn't helped himself to the Kadian.

"Yes. I can't believe I slept so long. What about you? Did you sleep?"

He shrugged, and Cuddy turned the lights on before joining him on the couch. He watched her anxiously as she sat down on the far end; careful of jarring his leg unnecessarily.

"For a while." He admitted quietly. Cuddy studied him closely, noting the way his right hand rested protectively over his thigh. He ignored her intense scrutiny, opting to focus on the bizarre Malaysian soap opera he'd found. She watched for a time; surprised to find that while the dialogue was incomprehensible, their body language was such that she was able to follow the plot. When the show went to commercial, she tore her eyes from the screen and glanced at him; unsurprised to find his eyes were closed. In the flickering light from the TV he looked sallow and tired again.

"House?" she asked, and smiled slightly at the way his eyes popped open.

"What?" he asked sleepily.

"Do you feel like going down to dinner?"

He was silent for a moment before shaking his head and Cuddy sighed deeply.

"You can't avoid them all forever."

"Actually, I can. We're only here for a week." He pointed out glibly.

"They're your peers. They respect you."

"Don't care." He muttered in a low voice. His grip tightened on his leg again; knuckles blanching to white and back again. She sighed aloud, feeling as frustrated with his leg as she was with him personally. House had always been difficult; now the pain made him irascible.

"All I'm saying is: it wouldn't hurt you to go out with them socially. Have a drink with your colleagues."

"They don't want to have a drink with me." House said petulantly. "They want to kiss my ass."

"What do you care?" Cuddy threw her hands in the air in exasperation. "You get free drinks and the chance to enjoy humiliating the rest of us. What's not to like?"

Sullen, House shifted beside her and lifted his leg down from the table. Sitting up, he planted the cane between his legs and rose unsteadily to his feet. Cuddy sighed to herself; she hadn't meant to drive him away. But House was so—stubborn—that if she didn't push him to interact with his colleagues she knew he'd spend the entire trip in the hotel room. And, truth be told; the hospital needed his collaborative interaction at this conference as much as they needed his reputation.

"House—" she began, only to fall silent at the hurt look in his fierce blue eyes. He limped steadily back into his room and closed the door behind himself. Feeling her temper flare, she resisted the urge to storm into his room and order him to change and join her for dinner. He was a grown man, she told herself. She couldn't force him to do anything. Rising to her feet, she snatched the remote from his side of the couch and turned the set off. She lingered for a moment in the silence before setting the remote down and making her way into her own room. Closing the door, she surveyed her disheveled appearance in the mirror; trying to decide between touching up her appearance and changing entirely. Reaching a decision, she opted to change and touch up her make up instead of showering. Selecting a loose, flowing skirt and a light blouse she hurriedly changed and slid her feet into a pair of sandals before making her way to the door.

The suite was silent, and she realized she couldn't even see a light on under House's door. He'd been in pain, she knew, and she imagined he'd thrown back a Kadian and decided to call it a night. In any case, it was unlikely she'd see him until morning.

Given a choice between the stuffy dining room and the more relaxed atmosphere of the bar; she'd happily taken a spot on a barstool before ordering a colorful looking drink and a plate of appetizers. Unlike House's small Malaysian restaurant, the bar only offered American fare. Still, she readily downed the chips and salsa while sipping at her drink. The bar was marginally full—most were travelers, she'd wager—and she surveyed the room curiously. A few doctors were spread throughout the bar—most were younger, single and male. Well, not single, she realized belatedly; when one man still wearing a ring followed the seductive walk of a girl out of the bar. She rolled her eyes then; wishing again that House had come down with her. She could almost imagine the smart comment he might have made—loud enough to be heard, of course. She had no sooner finished her drink when the bartender brought over another.

"Oh, no—I didn't—"

"From the gentleman." The bartender told her crisply, and Cuddy blinked in surprise. She looked about sharply; her eyes met the gaze of a handsome man seated at a table near the windows. He was clearly a businessman of some sort; though his jacket had been shed, tie loosened and sleeves pushed back.

And no ring—or even a tan line—she noted in relief. She nodded to him, and smiled before sipping at her drink. Glass in one hand, she slid to her feet and had no sooner begun to move toward the handsome stranger when she halted abruptly.

"Dr. Cuddy?" a voice called, and she turned sharply to find Sir Richard Scott standing nervously just inside the doorway.

"Good evening." She greeted warmly, only to freeze when he did not return the gesture. "Is everything all right?" she asked hesitantly.

"I—" he paused, and Cuddy felt her blood freeze in warning. "I believe Dr. House could use your assistance."

"Did something happen?" she asked, feigning disinterest.

"I regret to tell you he has fallen. He has asked for your assistance."

"He fell?" Cuddy felt her heart speed up; House was extraordinarily graceful for a man with a cane. In all the time she'd known him—before the infarction and after—she could count on two fingers how many times he'd fallen. He had never asked for her help.

"Yes. In the lobby."


	6. Chapter 6

Her heart pounded.

With every step she drew closer to the lobby where she could see a small cluster of people gathered about House, prone on the floor. Well, not prone. He was sitting defensively with his left leg drawn up, his back to the wall. He was glowering at everyone around him, though Cuddy could see a hint of fear in his eyes.

"What are you doing?" she demanded in exasperation. House shifted his gaze to meet hers steadily as she loomed over him. The fear faded a little, his expression slowly becoming more relaxed.

"I was taking your advice." He said smoothly, even as his right hand clenched about his thigh so hard the knuckles turned white. "Going out for a drink."

Cuddy knelt beside him and rested one hand on his arm. She let her touch linger for a long while, until his hand relaxed again and she was able to wrap her fingers about his wrist. His skin was clammy and his pulse was through the roof. Yet, he remained seated as though he had intended to fall in the lobby all along. Impressed by his stoicism, she wondered if he summoned his bravado for the sake of his colleagues or simply for himself. Above them, Sir Richard Scott hovered anxiously.

"Are you alright, Greg?" he asked. "Shall I call an ambulance?"

"No! I'm fine." House clutched his thigh again, though Cuddy was the only one to notice. Waving his left hand, he deflected their attention by demanding his cane. When Scott brought it over, Cuddy rose smoothly and extended her hand. Eyeing her distrustfully, House shook his head subtly and leaned his head back against the wall.

"I'll get up when I'm ready to." He pronounced, by which Cuddy deciphered that he didn't think the leg would hold him just yet. Letting her hand drop, Cuddy gestured slightly for Scott and his colleagues to join her a short distance away.

"Will he be alright?" Scott asked again, and Cuddy nodded. Turning on the charm that had always aided her while administrating, she summoned a brave smile.

"He'll be fine." She said smoothly. "I'll remain here with him; he'll be up and around shortly."

With a great deal of reluctance, Scott and the other doctors withdrew. Remaining where she had been standing, Cuddy affected a distant expression. Once she was certain that they were out of sight, she slowly turned to find House still sitting with his back to the wall, eyes closed.

"What happened?" she asked gently.

"Water. Cane slipped." He said flatly. Cuddy's eyes sought out a slick spot on the marble floor; found the precise spot where the cane had slipped. She glanced at House again, and sighed at the pensive expression on his face. She imagined he found the entire event to have been deeply humiliating; to have slipped and fallen while in the presence of his colleagues. House was a very private man.

"Can I get a hand?" he asked faintly, and Cuddy found herself jolted out of her thoughts. She held a hand out, and braced herself to take his weight as she helped him up from the floor. House came up suddenly, his weight staggering the two of them as she struggled to keep him upright long enough to get the cane beneath himself. She held him close for a moment, feeling the way he breathed raggedly and shuddered against her in pain.

"Are you alright?" she asked softly. Unable to speak, he nodded against her. "Can you make it upstairs?"

"I think so." He managed shakily. He fumbled to put the cane beneath his right palm; took an experimental step with the right leg that would have sent him to the floor again if Cuddy hadn't been at his elbow.

"Go slow." She advised, and House gave her a withering look.

One thing that had been impressed upon her prior to her first trip to Singapore was the need to bring light clothing. Now, slowly making her way across the hotel lobby supporting half of House's weight—she understood why. Despite the air-conditioning, she felt drenched in sweat. Beside her, House seemed to fare little better. He was soaked in sweat; it beaded along his hairline and saturated his dress shirt.

"Do you need to stop?" she asked quietly.

"No." he muttered hoarsely.

"House—" she began, only to pause when he hissed;

"I don't need to stop now. I need to lie down. If I stop now I won't make it upstairs." he confessed sharply. Nodding, Cuddy slid her hand from his elbow and wrapped her arm more securely about his waist. He glanced down at her in surprise, but said nothing as she took a little bit more of his weight onto herself. Like the losing team of a three-legged race, they staggered through the elevator and spilled out onto the third floor. His limp growing worse by the moment, House could do little more than grunt while Cuddy worked the door and guided them inside. She was all but carrying him the last few feet into his room, where she hurriedly sat him down on the bed.

His face was pale; sweat soaked his hair and face and showed in patches under his arms. He lay back, groaning in misery; and gripped his right thigh hard, his fingers kneading the puckered flesh futilely.

"Tell me what you need, House." Cuddy said firmly. "Ice? Heating pad?"

"No." he grunted, and Cuddy knelt beside the bed. She longed to smooth his tousled hair but knew he wouldn't appreciate the gesture.

"No what?"

"Nothing." He breathed again. Clenching his teeth, he hissed raggedly as the pain ramped up again.

"You need something." Cuddy repeated.

"Spasm." He muttered. "Won't stop til it's done."

"Do you have any muscle relaxers?" she asked, and House squeezed his eyes closed before shaking his head in misery. He swallowed, and wrapped his left arm around his stomach in agony. Suddenly, he sat upright and cried out at the pain caused by the sudden movement. Before she could react, he was already retching.

"Cuddy—" he gasped, and she dashed away to the bathroom. Grasping the ice bucket, she bolted back to him. Given that his last meal had been some time ago—there was nothing more than bile on the bottom when she took it away. She rinsed the basin, and then wet a washcloth before returning to House. The basin she set on the bedside table before she began wiping his face.

"Tell me what you need, House." She repeated, hoping to provoke him into answering. His hands were firmly locked around his traitorous leg; he shuddered and shook and sniffled as the pain ebbed and flowed. For forty-five minutes he'd battled the pain alone before she noticed his breathing was beginning to slow. His grip loosened slightly, the frenzied kneading he'd done had slowly eased until he only held the limb; leery of moving for fear of the pain returning. He had yet, too, she noted; to uncurl from his defensive posture.

Rising to her feet, she re-wet the washcloth in the bathroom and unwrapped a plastic cup for water. Careful not to jar him, she sat down beside him on the bed and offered the glass. He stared at her dumbly; unable or unwilling to move from his position. Sighing, she set the glass down on the table and passed the washcloth over his sweaty face and neck.

"What do you need?" she asked again, smiling sadly as he leaned into her touch. "Will you take a Kadian?" she asked patiently. After a long moment, House nodded. She rose from the bed and retreated into the bathroom. She shook a pill out of the bottle and returned to his side. He slowly uncurled, taking great care to only relax enough to allow his head to tip back as she offered him the pill and then the water. He froze then, and she shook her head.

"Rinse your mouth out, at least?" she prompted. He took a reluctant sip of water, then another; spitting into the basin she offered before finishing the rest of the glass. He settled back into the pillows, still unwilling to move lest he prompt another spasm.

"Thought you were going to spend the night with the Kadian, anyway." She said in a low voice. If he didn't want to answer, she could understand. After an indeterminate amount of time, House finally answered.

"Scott called." He said hoarsely. "Said they were going out for a round. Said he had somebody I should meet."

"And you went?" she asked quietly. She felt her ire rise; House would go if Scott asked? But then, House rarely did things for anyone but himself. Maybe he'd offered the right kind of—

"Said they had a '37 Glenfiddich." House sighed raggedly, and gave her a small, sly smile. "Not right to stand up a lady." He tried to laugh then, but the drug was beginning to kick in. His eyes were slowly losing focus, and his body was growing steadily heavier.

"How's the leg feel now?" she asked dryly.

"Better." He breathed, and his eyes fluttered closed.

"Would a heating pad help?" she asked, and smiled when she realized House was very nearly under. "House?" she squeezed his shoulder gently, smiling when he roused but didn't open his eyes. "Will a heating pad help?" she asked again.

"Yeah." He muttered sleepily. Getting to her feet, she moved into her own room and rummaged through her suitcase for the heating pad she'd brought. Plugging it in close to the bed, she tucked it around House's upper thigh. Hopefully the combination of heat and the medication would serve to loosen the remaining muscle while he slept.


	7. Chapter 7

She awoke with a start; diffuse light warming the room and dulling her sense of time. Sitting up slowly, she felt stiff muscles protest and the 300 count sheets slide smoothly over her skin and pool at her knees as she pushed them back. Stretching, she reached for her cell phone and grasped it with one hand; a finger already poised to key in her password. The screen flickered to life and she noted it was already ten thirty. Over half the morning gone, she mused absently. Scrolling through the phone, she smiled as she read message after message from her hospital email account. Among the typical invites to conferences, highlighted publications, appointment reminders and leave requests she found a sprinkling of her favorite messages.

Inevitably, the emails documented the slow progression whenever House's team took on a patient. The trail of complaints usually began in the ER; where the patient was often seized before the admitting had a chance to begin any tests. Then the staff on the fourth floor; from Infectious Disease to Oncology to Radiology—routinely began a series of complaints which varied depending on which area of hospital resources the department was using the most.

And finally, complaints would arise from surgery—as, almost inevitably—House's patients would end up in surgery at some point. Thus far, the patient had only made it to radiology and oncology—respectively. And the complaint was only from oncology—though, surprisingly, it didn't appear to concern the diagnostics team at all. The complaint was from the associate department head—regarding Wilson's involvement in the case.

She rolled her eyes; Wilson occasionally had a tendency to take cases to appease his conscience; atone for a mistake—or to intrigue House and con him into taking the case instead. This particular patient—an elderly woman found to have asthenia, cognitive impairment and optical atrophy—smacked of Wilson atoning for a mistake. The man was utterly predictable. Shaking her head, she hastily texted an email to Brown ordering him to take the matter up with Wilson himself.

With one last languid stretch against the cool sheets, she slid gracefully from the bed and drew the nearby silken robe about her bare shoulders. Cinching the belt, she contemplated beginning her yoga routine—or her ablutions, and decided on the latter. Besides, House wouldn't thank her for being rousted out of bed even at this hour. But he at least deserved to be awakened by someone who didn't have morning breath.

Teeth brushed, face scrubbed, hair frizzy—she stepped out of the bathroom and into the main suite to find an absence of life. House's door was still firmly closed, the T.V. was off. Sighing, she moved to his door; gave two sharp raps in warning before she turned the handle.

The drapes were closed, the room was lost in the darkness save for what light spilled in from behind her. Letting her eyes adjust, she stared into the room severely until the bed and its occupant slowly came into sight.

House was deeply asleep, lying just as she had left him the night before. The only difference, she noted sadly; was the way he held the heating pad in place with his right hand. The other was curled up near his face. She moved nearer to the bed and sighed aloud when she found House's eyes were crinkled in pain, and his face was dotted with perspiration.

"House?" she asked tenderly. She longed to sit down beside him but feared jarring the bed. She knelt beside him and touched his left hand gently. "Talk to me." She commanded. "What do you need?"

His blue eyes opened, and she felt her heart stutter at the pain within their depths. Tears filled his red rimmed eyes, and he choked back a sob when she touched his cheek. He released a long, shuddering breath and pressed the heating pad down into the ruined valley of his leg.

"Talk to me." She ordered again, rising to her feet and darting into the bathroom to wet another washcloth and return to his side. Ever mindful of his leg, she sank down on the mattress beside him and ran the warm cloth over his face. He stared at her feebly, and she touched his cheek again; desperate to anchor him to her somehow.

"What do you need?" she asked again.

"Hurts." He mumbled pitifully.

"Did you take another dose of Kadian?" she asked patiently. He seemed to consider the question, and shook his head. Desperate to ascertain the truth, she scanned the bedside table and realized with a sinking heart she had left the bottle in the bathroom the night before. Horrified, she rose to her feet and darted in there once more; retrieving the bottle with far more force than was necessary. She hurried back to him; popped the top off and offered the pill wordlessly.  
He took the pill meekly, gesturing for the water glass she'd left for him. A couple of swallows later, and she set the half-empty glass back on the table silently. She stood the Kadian bottle next to it.

"Thanks." He mumbled hoarsely.

"You're welcome." She whispered softly. She stroked his hair back gently, watching the way the pain lines around his eyes slowly began to relax as the medication kicked in. After nearly twenty minutes, she could see awareness return to his gaze, and she dropped her hand away.

"Feel better?" she asked dryly, pleased to see a ghost of his feral grin.

"Loads." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "In fact, I only seem to have this problem when you're around, Doctor Cuddy."

"Do you ever actually pick women up with those lines?" she asked finally; fighting a smile.

"All the time." He lied, and she longed to slug him. She settled for slapping his shoulder. She studied him closely, taking his wrist to count his pulse, lay the back of her hand on his forehead to roughly gauge his temp. He lay as he had since falling into bed the night before; slightly curled on his left side with his right leg propped on a couple of pillows and stretched out before him.

"How's the pain?" she asked, having decided he was likely to live.

He shrugged. "A five or so." He waved one hand dismissively.

"Did you sleep?" she asked as she rose to her feet and returned to her room. She rummaged through her suitcase and came up with the stethoscope she'd brought along. House stared at her through half-lidded eyes when she rejoined him; obviously the Kadian was doing its job.

"A little." He admitted around a yawn. "Kept waking up when I moved."

She longed to inspect the leg directly, but knew better than to expect House would let her strip him down to his shorts. "Are you likely to kill yourself if I go to the conference?" she asked bluntly. House blinked at her tone, and his eyes opened wide. The blue of his eyes had overtaken his constricted pupils.

"I'm fine." He muttered, and she bit her lip. House wasn't going to be getting up any time soon. Given the amount of pain he appeared to be in when off the Kadian, he'd be lucky to be awake for his own presentation the next day. She hated to admit it—but House was better off spending the day in bed. She would have to do all the schmoozing on her own.  
Determined to get something for the hospital out of the trip, she slid cautiously from the edge of the bed and studied House as he lay prone atop identical 300 count sheets.

"House?" she asked finally. He blinked at her in confusion. "I think you should stay in bed today. Rest up. Were there any conferences you wanted notes from?"

"Mathis." He murmured, licking his lips.

"I'll attend his presentation and take notes." She offered. Hesitating, she paused a moment to decide how best to mention her central preoccupation. "If you get a chance, I think you should review your presentation today." She squeezed her eyes closed and pinched the bridge of her nose in sudden fear. "You did finish it, right?"

He glared at her. "Yeah. 'M not gonna look bad." He mumbled edgily. She smiled at his goofy attempt to look angry. He merely looked stoned.

"Let me know if you need anything. I'll have my cell on me." She promised, and smiled at the over-exaggerated nod he gave against the pillows. With one last baleful look, his blue eyes fluttered closed and he sighed faintly as he slid into a place with no pain.


End file.
